A Song I Used to Know, page 17
I scrunch my nose. “Aw. You were nervous.”
“Yes. Very. But not just because…” He sighs. Without a word, he opens his hands and nods toward the laptop. I hand it to him. “There’s something else—something I want to show you.”
He clicks around, then sets the laptop on the ottoman and scoots it close. There’s a video file open on the screen, but it’s not playing yet.
“Mason, is that…?” A burst of nerves and heat surges through me.
“I couldn’t save all of it,” he says, “but I got a lot off of there.”
My hand flies to my chest as I draw in a sharp breath.
“It wasn’t Gene’s camera, Stevie.” I’m crying already. “It was theirs.”
I release my breath slowly through tight lips, trying to steel myself for whatever comes next.
“Merry Christmas, Stevie Rae.” He says it through a giddy smile, then presses a key and watches me as the video comes to life.
Her voice. Her voice. My mother. I slap my hand over my mouth, muffling the cry that escapes. “Mom,” I whisper. “Mama.”
She’s sitting in a rocker, rubbing her round belly, talking to it. Talking to me. She stops when she notices the camera. “Mark, get that thing away from me. What are you doing?”
“We can’t wait until she’s here to make sure it works, Rae.”
“Well, if you’d have just bought one new instead of from a yard sale, for crying out loud.”
“Hey, would you rather the camera come from a yard sale or the infant seat? We dream on a budget, babe.”
“Just turn it off. No one wants to see this.” She hides her face.
“Everyone wants to see this.” There’s so much love in his voice. “You’re beautiful, Renae.” She is. She’s so beautiful.
Next, she’s standing hunched slightly with a hand pressed under her bulging belly. She’s laughing, though she looks to be in pain. “We can’t wait to meet you, baby girl!” she calls. The picture gets muddled as the camera finds my dad’s face.
“We’re so excited!” he says. “Daddy can’t wait to hold you, sweetheart. And teach you to play the guitar. And how to ride a bike. And how to land a right hook.”
“Mark!” my mother screeches. “I love you, but I will break that camera across your face. Let’s go!”
The screen cuts to Mom in a hospital bed, holding me. Dad sits beside her. They’re both red-faced and puffy-eyed. A familiar voice behind the camera introduces the scene.
“Mark and Renae Parker have welcomed little Stephanie into this world—a perfect baby girl. She came out strong, kicking and screaming.”
“Singing,” my mother corrects. Uncle Gene laughs behind the camera. My mother kisses the baby. Kisses me. “She came into this world singing.”
There are bits and pieces of footage spanning what appears to be my first year of life. Short clips, but precious. Every last one. Even the ones where the picture is distorted. I’m full-blown sobbing by the time we reach my first steps.
“Mason…” I turn to him, touching his knee. “Mason, I…” I want to thank him, then go finish my cry privately. Then I hear it. It.
My song.
A strange and rather horrible sound escapes my throat as I turn to see the image of my mother rocking me, singing in an exhausted yet perfectly on-key voice.
The sun is playing hide and seek
The man in the moon is singing
The crickets play while the birds are away
But Stevie’s still not sleeping
Untold wonder awaits you tonight
In that magical land we call dreaming
Maybe you’ll fly and set sail to the sky
If only you were sleeping
Stevie is lovely, and Stevie is kind
Stevie is mine for the keeping
Stevie is more than I ever hoped for
But Stevie’s still not sleeping
“Stop it,” I screech. “Stop… Stop it.” I can’t watch any more, if there is any more.
It has words. My song has words. It’s real, and it’s mine. She made it up just for me.
The room blurs. My heart races. At some point, I must have quit breathing because now I’m gasping for air. My head grows heavy and droops, falling into my hands.
“Stevie?” Mason’s voice is distant and muffled.
I lose control. I break. Foreign and shrill cries and gargles spew from my mouth, the spaces between filled with erratic gasps and wheezing.
Mason hugs me to him, rubbing circles on my back, trying to calm me. Every so often, he speaks. Reassuring messages like, “I’ve got you,” or, “You’re okay.” I don’t know how long it is before I attempt to sit up and speak.
“I h-have-have… I have to go.” I try to stand.
Mason gently holds my hand. “Stevie, even if we weren’t in the middle of nowhere, you can’t go anywhere right now. Not like this. Just breathe.”
“I can’t. I don’t. I can’t…” I fall against him again, bringing my flannel shirt up to try and cover my face, willing myself to disappear. “Please. I can’t…”
“Stevie, it’s alright. I’ve got you.”
“It’s not alright!” I yell. “It’s not.”
“Breathe.” He holds me tighter.
I keep trying to find a rhythm. Every time I think maybe I’m getting there, another ugly sob escapes, and I start all over again.
“Stevie, I had no idea it would upset you so much. I’m so sorry.” Poor Mason, ignorant of the significance of his discovery. He diligently rubs my back, trying to help me find my breathing pattern. How many times must I be the neurotic girl crying on his couch?
“I need…tissues,” I finally manage. I have snot all over my sleeve. He leaves and returns with a box. I start blowing my nose, not even caring that it’s loud and gross. What dignity do I have left at this point? Next, he brings me water, holding the cup for me while I sip sloppily through a straw.
“You’re being,” I take another shaky breath, “too nice. You don’t…h-have to…”
“What else can I do?” He pushes a wet, tangled lock of hair out of my face. Why does he have to be so perfect? “Stevie, I’m so sorry.”
My breathing isn’t so labored anymore. My eyes burn, and there’s a chaotic drumline where my heart should be, but I can breathe. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I croak.
“I never expected it would elicit this. If I’d known…” He shakes his head, still holding my face. I allow myself to rest against his palm, closing my eyes just as he did that night in his driveway. This time, no one says, I can’t.
“What can I do?” he asks again. His voice is silky. His breath, molten lava against my skin.
All I want is to fall back into his arms and stay, letting him shelter me. But what if his current affection is born of pity? Does he feel sorry for the train wreck I’ve become? Again? Or is it possible there truly is more between us, and this isn’t a one-sided delusion?
I can’t trust it. My head is too fuzzy; I can’t trust anything.
“This isn’t fair,” I whisper, opening my eyes but avoiding his. Slowly, I pull farther away, turning from him and wiping my face with my shirt. Classy. “I keep falling apart in front of you. I can’t even leave and go break down alone and salvage what little dignity I have left.”
“This has nothing to do with dignity, alright? We’re miles beyond that. Please, look at me.” I can’t. “This isn’t about your pride right now, it’s about you. Your wellbeing. You just had a panic attack, Stevie. Whether you want to admit it or not. All I care about right now is that you’re okay.”
“Well, I’m not,” I whisper scream. Desperate to release my rage but aware of a sleeping toddler down the hall. “It’s that song. That stupid, wonderful song.”
Mason puts his arm around me again, urging me back into him. I cave, resting against his chest, fisting the fabric of his sweater. Finding my voice, keeping my rhythm… It all seems a little easier with his heartbeat reverberating in my ear.
“It’s been with me my whole life,” I continue. “When they died, I kept the melody, but the words left. It was like they vanished right along with my mother. I asked for help. I begged. ‘Uncle Gene, do you remember Mommy’s song?’ ‘Shut up, Stevie! She’s dead. She doesn’t have a song!’”
I pause to let a few necessary sobs out. My anger diminishes, and I feel in control of my voice again.
“I thought I just made it up. I thought, maybe, I was so desperate for a memory to cling to that I made the whole damn thing up. I gave up all hope of remembering the words years ago.”
“That must have been torture,” he says, his fingers combing through my hair.
“You have no idea… You couldn’t have possibly known what that song means,” deep breath, “means to me.” He encases me in both arms, and I let myself curl up into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is.
“Daddy. Daddy, wake up! Daddy, I’m hungry!”
“I’m up, buddy,” Mason whispers. “Just give me a second, ok?”
The gravity of my situation begins to sink in.
I fell asleep. I fell asleep on the couch. Wait, no, I fell asleep on Mason. I had a full-blown panic attack, then fell asleep on him.
I finally gather the courage to open my eyes. Yup, that’s Mason’s favorite shawl-neck sweater I’m drooling on. Oh, no. I sit up, wiping my mouth first, then the goop from my eyes. Oh, please, no. I peek at him through my fingers. He sits calmly, smiling. Not embarrassed. Not worried. Just smiling.
“Stevie, are you sick?” Daniel asks, coming to my side. “I like to snuggle Daddy when I’m sick, too.”
Oh, dear.
I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, where to look, what to do. Mason keeps his perfect smile.
“Stevie? Stevie? Are you sick?” Daniel starts climbing into my lap.
Mason snatches him up and pulls him close. “Give Stevie some space, buddy.”
“Um, hi,” I finally manage, my voice scratchy and low.
“Hi,” the boys return in unison.
Daniel giggles, and I want to laugh along for his sake, but my foggy, pounding head won’t oblige. Everything hurts.
“How are you feeling?” Mason asks.
“I’m not sure I can answer that right now.”
He nods. “That’s fair.”
“Daddy, I’m super hungry!” Daniel wails.
What time is it? How long did I sleep sprawled out across Mason like that? Did I snore? Noooo my gosh. Please, no. It would be too much. This is already so much.
I start to stand, but Mason puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Please, don’t rush. I’ll fix us something to eat. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Do you need anything? Water? Pain reliever?”
“Time machine?” I murmur. “Invisibility cloak?”
There’s an urgency behind his eyes as he slides his hand down my arm, resting it on my knee. “Stop. How much time have you spent scolding yourself for things completely beyond your control?”
His words sober me, and my chest constricts. I swallow, loud and slow.
“When has it ever worked? When has it ever made anything better?”
There’s a flutter in my stomach as I realize his thumb is ever so subtly caressing the side of my knee. It’s small but deliberate. My eyes dart to his as my breaths grow ragged. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a yearning behind his deep browns. But there are apologies in them, too. That same I can’t look. I want to peel back all his layers and figure out exactly what it means.
“Daddy, I’m super duper hungry!”
With a twitch of his lips—almost a smile—Mason withdraws his touch, leading Daniel into the kitchen.
I escape to my room and don’t come back out. I clean myself up, put on fresh pajamas, and crawl into bed.
Mason knocks on my door and asks if I’m hungry. I pull the covers over my head, holding my breath until his footsteps fade down the hall.
Daniel knocks on my door and asks me to go sledding. I cry silently into my pillow as Mason whispers to him that Stevie isn’t feeling well and Let Stevie rest and Another time, Danny Boy.
I hate disappointing that sweet baby, but I’m not any good to him the way I am right now.
Mason knocks on my door long after darkness falls.
“Daniel’s asleep. Can we talk?”
I don’t answer.
“Stevie?”
Nothing.
“I made you a plate. You should try to eat something.”
I’m so hungry it hurts, but I don’t say anything.
“I’ll just leave it here.”
He doesn’t speak for a long while, but the hallway light is on, and I can still see the shadow cast by his presence under the bedroom door.
“Stevie, please.”
I toss back the covers and shuffle to the door. When I crack it open, he straightens, and his eyes brighten. There’s a plate in his hand with some meatloaf, mixed veggies, and mashed potatoes.
“It’s not your typical holiday dinner, I know. I told you, we’re pretty low-key when we’re here.”
I don’t smile or say thank you as I accept the plate and start closing the door again.
“Stevie, I brought you here to make your Christmas better, and somehow, I think I made it worse. I’m so sorry. I never meant—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. It’s flat and callous. He deflates, his eyes sinking to the floor.
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Stevie,” he whispers. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”
I’m not sure where the courage comes from, but I find myself pleading with him in a cracking whisper, “Then stop sending me mixed signals.”
These words seem to destroy him. He’s fading into oblivion before my eyes as he says, barely audible, “You deserve more than I can give you.”
“Deserve.” There’s that word again. I shake my head, chewing on the inside of my cheek. He takes a step back, and I take that as my cue to close the door with a clipped, “Goodnight, Mason.”
The next morning, we pack up and leave. It’s the tragic end of something, maybe everything, and yet it’s somehow also a colossal relief. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, nothing lost. I can go home and try to forget every look and touch and almost moment.
As mixed as our signals have been over these last couple months, we’ve never started anything. We’ve never officially said the words. Never I’m falling for you or even I like you. Mason’s never promised me anything, and I’ve never conveyed the depths of my longing. No promises made, nothing broken. So why does the sound of shattering glass echo in my ears every time I look at him?
Irrelevant. This was a non-starter; I knew that from the beginning. If only I’d listened to my own words and never let myself even hope for more.
I stare out the window the entire drive back to Spokane, not uttering a word. All I can think about is going home, crawling into bed, and watching those home movies on repeat until I choke on my misery or Merrin comes back to town and distracts me. Whichever comes first.
Mason and Daniel picked me up when we left Thursday, so when Mason misses the turn for my neighborhood and heads toward his own, I look at him. His eyes are focused on the road, and his jaw is set.
“You missed my street,” I say.
He jerks his head. Not quite a shake, but enough to say No, I didn’t. He’s driving me to his house on purpose, but I’m not sure why.
We pull into the garage, and I don’t unbuckle. He jerks his head again, this one is a little more deliberate; I’m being summoned.
He gets out and unbuckles Daniel from his seat, closing the door behind him.
The two of them are probably in the house by now, and I’m still sitting in the passenger seat, stewing. My phone buzzes.
Please trust me, and come inside.
I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that he said, please trust me before he asked me again to come inside, but I think I like it. I think I love it. Except I’m not sure I can trust him after the hot and cold routine he’s put me through.
My phone buzzes again.
Stevie, I’m sorry. Please come inside and talk to me.
I lose the battle with myself and go into his house. It’s cold, and I don’t feel like walking home. When I step inside, he’s not waiting by the door, so I move through the house until I find him in the kitchen. He’s braced against the counter, his feet crossed at the ankles and his arms folded across his chest. When he sees me, he snaps up.
Looking around, I knit my brow. “Where’s Danny?”
With a subtle shake of his head, he answers, “Upstairs playing. I figured the chances of him being preoccupied here were better than sitting in your driveway. And I really need to talk to you.”
There’s an earnestness etched on his face, and I know he’s serious. Something is eating at him. With a deep, shaky breath, I step farther into the kitchen and sit on a bar stool.
“What is it, Mason?” My voice is tired because my heart is tired.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, taking a few steps closer. “I need…” His voice trails off. He’s still stepping closer. Slowly, with the tiniest steps ever known to man. But. He’s. Moving. Closer.
I swallow.
“If I’m being honest,” he says, “it’s more that I have a question I need to ask you.”
Another step closer to me. My stomach flip-flops. “Oh-okay.”
“It’s important,” he says, only inches remaining between us. “And I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time.” He places his hands on my knees, leaving me breathless. “But it’s…a big deal. A big change.”
“Yeah?” I stammer, unsure where to look or what to do besides sit there, stupid and limp.
His lips hover over mine so closely I taste his breath. “Like, life-altering.”
Don’t do this if you don’t mean it. Don’t do this if you don’t mean it. Tell him, Stevie!
“Mason, don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”
He braces himself on the counter, caging me between his arms. “Stevie,” he whispers, “I swear I mean it,” and I know these words will forever be inscribed on my heart.
